Secret Truths
by Zeff N Company
Summary: FtSKM: -WWII!fill- He was resilient, but it would come to be a greater joy once they finally broke him. For now, Captain Strife respected him, as a fisherman respected a particularly evasive marlin that he had yet to reel in...


_(UPDATE 27 April 2010: My thanks goes to _Kawari_ for fixing the German dialogue for me. I really appreciate it.)_

_This one is a little different. The original prompt was: "__Language kink. Bonus points for German."_

_Then a second sub-prompt was added to it: "... if this got filled by a World War II type of story (Cloud being all "blond-haired, blue-eyed"), would anyone kill me?"_

_Anyway, here's the result of it, after I just about chickened out on uploading until I was convinced otherwise. Well, here goes nothing...  


* * *

_

It had been close to half a day now. To push it any further could cost them his life, and that was something they could not afford just yet; not until he had spilled his guts. So the order was given, and they lowered him at once, returning him to his cell to await further interrogation.

A few minutes later, the camp officer arrived. Captain Strife was a living example of the Nordic race: soft blond hair the color of sunlight was tucked neatly under his peaked cap, and his bright eyes were as blue as the clear midday sky. His features were fine and sharp, and he looked the part of a noble with his stiff posture and cold glare. What darkened his otherwise cherubic appearance was the pressed gray service uniform with Wehrmacht style shoulder boards and SS collar patch. He seemed a messenger of death, and even the troops who followed his orders were intimidated by his presence.

No one followed him into the holding cell; all of them knew that when the Captain conducted his interrogations, he preferred to have them done away from prying eyes. So when the officer approached the final pair of guards, both men knew to salute their superior and surrender the ring of keys to him before leaving the area. With the door slamming shut behind him, Captain Strife crossed the space between himself and the silhouette of the prisoner. He found the light switch, and with a deft flick, illuminated the room at once. He could see the two chairs now, one empty and in reasonably good condition, waiting for him.

The prisoner had been deposited upon the other chair with his hands fastened tightly behind him, the same position he had been in when they suspended him earlier. There was no imagining the pain and effect on his muscles and joints that had caused, but the man was not so much as shivering. He had not even flinched when the light suddenly came back to the previously dark room, and remained still in his limp posture, slumped forward with his head bowed toward his chest. The officer would have suspected he was unconscious if not for the shallow breaths appearing in visible puffs between parted lips. Stripped of his shirt, the ugly wounds over the man's battered body had barely stopped bleeding, covering his skin in patches of red, purple and near-black blue.

He was resilient, but it would come to be a greater joy once they finally broke him. For now, Captain Strife respected him, as a fisherman respected a particularly evasive marlin that he had yet to reel in. Dragging the remaining chair noisily with one hand, he closed the gap between him and the helpless prisoner before seating himself gracefully, polished black boots set apart. He lifted the crop in his hand, the tip stopping just shy of the man's chin in a soft rush of air.

Then the crop pushed further inward, nudging uncomfortably at the captive's throat and forcing him to cough, a painful action considering his badly bruised neck. The tool drew back ever so slightly, far enough to provide him reprieve but close enough to be felt, to remind him what would happen if he did not cooperate. The tip rested once more under the chin and pushed upward, harder in demand than before, and finally the man raised his head.

Behind a curtain of unkempt bronze bangs, the face streaked in blood was a clearer indication of the other forms of torture he had been subjected to. There was at least one head wound that still bled, the shallower cuts across his face already starting to scab over. What intrigued the blond officer the most was the long, deep scar that was still relatively new, the result of one warder lashing the prisoner across his face. The whip's strike had miraculously missed directly ruining either eye, instead cutting into skin from his right brow to his left cheek. Regardless, the trauma behind the injury had left its damage, and the man's gaze was distant, glassy gray flicking in the captain's direction but not focusing on him. Staring at the ragged visage, Captain Strife paused for a moment.

"… Herr Leonhart," he asked quietly, curiously, "was suchen du?"

Hearing the captain's voice, the prisoner squinted his eyes as he strained to match it with a face or name. Then he did, and his brows followed in a glare as his lips curled in a sneer of bared teeth stained pink with blood. When he did speak, it was a hoarse whisper that nevertheless carried the same, hard resolve:

"I think you have a pretty good idea."

Captain Strife arched his brow, a thin smile forming as he withdrew the crop altogether and sat back, watching as his captive barely kept his head up on his own.

"Du bist ein Deutscher," he commented lightly. Then, fluently with no accent, "yet you choose to speak in English."

"Thought I'd make it easier for you," the latter replied. "So your slower blood can keep up."

The crop returned, sharp enough to inflict yet another shallow cut.

"I may patronize your petty game," Captain Strife spoke in a threatening tone, "but I suggest you do not test my patience, dog."

Leonhart choked painfully on a laugh before he retorted: "You can fool yourself all you want, half-Aryan. We both know you're less German than I am. You just got lucky because of your pretty blond hair and blue eyes, didn't y-"

Unable to see the move coming, the captive took the full force of the blow when Strife lashed out, backhanding his victim so violently that he jerked in the chair he was bound to. His head lolling, the brunet chuckled through another pained wheeze of breath.

"… Weak," he rasped. "Compared to your full-blooded men, you hit like a girl, Cloud."

"Do not call me that, Herr Leonhart," Strife uttered dangerously. "_Never_ call me that."

Despite his obvious daze, Leonhart managed to scoff disdainfully. "That is your name, _Cloud_. That is the name your mother gave you, the name you were called in your hometown. Nothing will change that."

He would have hit him again, but his hand stayed as he realized what the prisoner was trying to achieve. The more this man pushed his buttons, the quicker he could come to making a mistake and accidentally – or deliberately, if he raged enough – killing him. The mercy and silence of death – that had to be Leonhart's objective.

This was not going as Strife had planned. It was he who was supposed to agitate, to provoke, to break; never the other way around. He had to stop this play. He had to take back control while he still could. Aiming at a particularly bad, infected wound on the man's exposed shoulder, he brought the crop down at full force. This time, he was rewarded with a stifled cry, the shock too sudden for the injured brunet to keep full control. Before he could even catch his breath, Strife was squeezing his jaw tightly.

"If you must insist on speaking names," the blond hissed, "then you can speak the names of your American friends. Tell me who you work with, traitor."

"… Americans?" Leonhart wheezed. "What Am-?"

The same injury was struck again, splitting the skin even further and releasing a fresh flow that trickled down the front of his body. Only the iron grip on his chin kept Leonhart in place, jerking upward so quickly that the brunet nearly bit his own tongue off in the process.

"You have mocked me, insulted me, tested my leniency," Strife spoke in a clipped manner. "You mistake me for a patient man, Herr Leonhart. If you continue to play your game, I will make your death so much slower and so much more painful."

There was a long silence, the only movement being the quivering of purple-mottled skin as Leonhart tried to swallow. His glassy eyes had lost their condescending glint, replaced by something more somber. The man seemed to be thinking about something, considering, weighing his options…

Then the jaw flexed under his grip, an indication that the man wished to speak. The grip slackened, allowing the prisoner the action while waiting to see if he dared try anything else.

"I will tell you," Leonhart whispered, his voice more hoarse with each word he struggled to speak. "I will tell you… a truth…"

The hand withdrew completely. "Speak, then."

Blind eyes slid shut, and the brunet parted his chapped lips to mouth some words that were barely intelligible. His voice seemed to have given out completely, reduced to no more than harsh wheezes as he kept moving his lips with no intention of stopping or attempting to project. Cursing under his breath, Strife leaned forward, bringing his ear closer, straining to hear what was being said. Before he paused to notice, he had lowered his head to bare inches from Leonhart's, so close he could almost taste the filth that covered his captive so liberally.

Suddenly, with a speed Strife was not prepared for, Leonhart turned his head and pressed forward. Initially missing his target, the man dragged his lips over a clean-shaven chin until he found lips that had parted with surprise. Latching on, his tongue slid in uninterrupted, probing sensitive spots once, twice, three times before darting back to safety, before the shocked captain could think to bring his teeth together with an audible "snap".

Strife jerked back, his face flushed red as he seethed with rage. Squeezing the crop in his hand, he held it high in the air as he snarled, "_You insolent dog…!_"

"Wahrheit…" Leonhart stated calmly, audibly, pausing the intended strike. "Ich wage es zu sagen… You kissed another man, little Captain…" – a small yet smug smirk crossed his features – "… and you liked it."

Any other man would have assumed the flush on the captain's face was all anger, all rage. The blinded captive's sharpened sense of smell told him otherwise. There was no doubting the unique scent of lust, no matter how faint it was.

"… You seek to defame me," Strife spoke at last, though his voice was lacking in its strong confidence of earlier. "You will not succeed. The word of a prisoner against the word of a Captain-"

"Means little," Leonhart finished for him, "but far from nothing. Even the word of a prisoner will be heard, will be passed on, until it reaches enough ears to become great… to become believed."

Suddenly, a hand had wrapped around his injured throat with crushing strength, a fearful man's attempt to silence the other. Glaring defiantly through the darkness that surrounded him, Leonhart grinned in quiet triumph.

_You can take my voice, but you cannot take my words,_ was his message, what they both knew. _The only way to truly silence me is to kill me. Now, quickly, while there is no one else I can tell._

To kill him now was to lose any chance of information, to incur the undoubtedly brutal wrath of his superiors. To let him live was to risk being discovered, being persecuted and stripped of his rank and pride, then sent to a concentration camp and ultimately killed like the those he had watched die in the most inhuman of manners.

Either way, he would lose.

It burned in him now, a terrible flame of red anger wrapping almost protectively around the searing blue fear at its center. Lowering the prisoner, shoving him hard into the chair, Strife left the dark bruises alone… for now. He leaned in, this time with words of his own.

"Well played, Herr Leonhart," he whispered. "But I promise you this: I will make you beg for forgiveness. I will make you plead for the mercy of death. For the rest of your miserable existence, I will make you crawl like the dog you are, and you will regret what you have done."

The man was silent, not even responding with any defiance. He had closed his eyes again, hearing every word and accepting all of it with his head bowed. And when Strife caught that subtle, strangely peaceful expression on Leonhart's face, his crop flew and struck the brunet again with greater force.

"How dare you," he snarled, raising the bloodied weapon once more. "_How dare you smile…!_"

There was a knock at the locked door, stopping the enraged captain mid-strike. With a growl, he kicked the chair to the ground with a loud "crack" before retrieving the right key from the ring and shoving it into the keyhole. Once the door unlocked, his countenance slipped quickly into a neutral expression as he saluted.

"Herr Colonel," he greeted unsteadily, then remembered his place and continued. "Sie sind da."

The tall imposing figure of Colonel Sephiroth in his near-black trench coat slipped into the room. Looking down at where the prisoner lay, he was unimpressed as he asked at once, "Haben Sie es?"

"… Nein," Strife admitted hesitantly.

Colonel Sephiroth looked again at the fallen man, this time with the slightest hint of interest. With a wave of his hand, the pair of guards that had accompanied him grabbed Leonhart and roughly righted him once more.

"Ich habe Englisch gehört," the colonel commented, indirectly confirming which language the prisoner seemed to prefer.

"Ja, Herr Colonel," the captain answered.

Surprisingly, the captive was still conscious, glaring with new strength at the added presence in the room. Just as Strife had, Sephiroth quickly took an interest in the most obvious weakness the man showed, holding a hand in front of Leonhart's eyes and chuckling when the brunet winced at its approach and turned away.

"You… amuse me, Herr Leonhart," he spoke slowly in English with a more pronounced accent. "Fery gut… Ve vill hafe much… fun…"

"Let me do it, Herr Colonel."

At once, the colonel's harsh emerald glint was on the captain, questioning him – it was not just the sudden bold request; it was his choice of language as well. Swallowing carefully, knowing to falter now was a bad idea, Strife continued his request. Still in English.

"I will break him myself," he spoke as firmly as he could, his eyes narrowing into a hard glare at the silent prisoner.

Sephiroth appeared to understand now, to like this change. He allowed it with a dismissive wave, straightening slowly and stepping away from Leonhart.

"See to it dat you to," he replied in his accented English, though his tone remained as dark in its warning as ever.

"Ja, Herr Colonel," Strife repeated respectfully.

With that, the colonel left. The door fell shut once more, returning privacy to the two men. Once again away from prying eyes, Strife turned on the helpless man and seized a fistful of hair, pulling forcefully.

"I made you a promise, Herr Leonhart," he growled deep in his throat. "And I assure you that I will keep it…"

Wincing more sharply from the pain, Leonhart managed to smirk back all the same. He had already heard the conversation between the officer and his superior. It did not matter if it had been in English or German, he would have understood the same meaning – Strife… no, _Cloud_ had come too close to losing his hold, to allowing another man of importance to hear those destructive words the brunet was waiting to speak. He had been afraid for his life; that was why he was still here instead of bowing out.

Leonhart knew that a living hell was waiting for him, but already he knew he did not fear it in the slightest.

He had already won.

* * *

_Translations by _Kawari:

_Du _(informal)_ vs. Sie_ (formal) - _Today only in business meetings we use the formal form. When talking to people_ _our age and on the street it's the informal._ _Back then - 1945 - the formal form was generally used, to signal a superior, __a person on the street who you didn't know (even if said person was your age __and you yourself were above 20) etc. The formal form was a signal to show_ _distance._ _Like the japanese speak the surname and only the given name when they know one __another really, really well._ (As Kawari caught on, Strife probably wouldn't respect Leonhart all that much, considering that he's not only a prisoner but also a traitor to his people. Thanks for translating both ways!)

_Was suchst du?_ = What are you looking for? (informal)

_Du bist ein Deutscher._ = You are German (informal - and yes, the translator I used did not translate German for me. Oof.)

_Wahrheit = _Truth

_Ich wage es zu sagen_. = I dare say. (_"Ich darf wohl sagen" has a little bit of a plea in it's meaning. "Ich wage es zu sagen" is smug, with no submission._)

_Sie sind da. _= You are there. (formal)

_Haben Sie es?_ = Do you have it? (formal)

_Ich habe Englisch gehört._ = I heard English.

My thanks again, Kawari. This was really helpful and just what I needed.


End file.
